#AmericanWriters
It’s all in the sound. A song. Seldom a song. It should be a song—made of particulars, wasps,
School is over. It is too hot to walk at ease. At ease in light frocks they walk the stre… to while the time away. They have grown tall. They hold
Ecstatic bird songs pound the hollow vastness of the sky with metallic clinkings— beating color up into it at a far edge,—beating it, beating…
munching a plum on the street a paper bag of them in her hand They taste good to her They taste good
First he said: It is the woman in us That makes us write– Let us acknowledge it– Men would be silent.
The May sun—whom all things imitate— that glues small leaves to the wooden trees shone from the sky
Gagarin says, in ecstasy, he could have gone on forever he floated ate and sang
"Sweet land" at last! out of sea— the Venusremembering wavelets rippling with laughter—
All the complicated details of the attiring and the disattiring are completed! A liquid moon moves gently among
ALL those treasures that lie in t… Mightier than the room of the star… All those treasures—I hold them i… Against the sides and the lid and… Crying that there is no sun come a…
Love is twain, it is not single, Gold and silver mixed to one, Passion 'tis and pain which ming… Glist’ring then for aye undone. Pain it is not; wondering pity
One leaves his leaves at home beomg a mullen and sends up a ligh… to peer from: I will have my way, yellow—A mast with a lantern, ten fifty, a hundred, smaller and smal…
You say love is this, love is that… Poplar tassels, willow tendrils the wind and the rain comb, tinkle and drip, tinkle and drip— branches drifting apart. Hagh!
Rather notice, mon cher, that the moon is titled above the point of the steeple than that its color
By the road to the contagious hosp… under the surge of the blue mottled clouds driven from the northeast—a cold wind. Beyond, th… waste of broad, muddy fields